Midnight Brunch

by Marta Acosta

  I’d been wondering what Edna’s son would be like. Conrad Grant looked like the fathers who showed up on move-in day at F.U. He had upper-middle-class ease and good grooming. His gray eyes had a slightly almond shape, a more masculine and restrained version of his mother’s.

  “Hello,” I said, giving a firm—but not too firm—grip, trying my best to look like an upstanding and worthwhile human being. I hoped this would be the start of a long and marvelous friendship. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  “Yes, we’ve heard about you,” said Oswald’s mother.

  I was so fretful that I could have sworn she said it in the same tone that she would have said “Yes, we’ve heard about flesh-eating bacteria.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Mr. Grant flatly. His gray eyes lacked the genial mischief that brightened Oswald’s. I took him for a solid, salt-of-the-earth type of man. A man of few words and deep thoughts.

  “How long will you be staying here?” asked Mrs. Grant.

  “I live here,” I answered, glancing at Oswald. He’d said she knew our situation.

  “I know you live here now, but what are your plans?”

  “Milagro is a writer, Mom,” Oswald said.

  “My plan is to keep working on my fiction and other writing. Did Oswald mention that I contributed a few chapters to Edna’s book on country living?”

  “Edna and her books,” Mrs. Grant said disdainfully. “Her roman à clef risked exposure of the whole family.”

  Edna had written the risqué Chalice of Blood when she was young and frisky. She’d spoofed vampires and the people who hated them. I’d loved it.

  “Evelyn,” said Mr. Grant, “it was a good book and everyone knew it was fantasy, right? No such thing as vampires.”

  “That’s not the point,” Mrs. Grant said. “Milagro, you never told me how long will you be staying as my son’s guest?”

  Edna came up at that moment and said, “Evelyn, behave yourself.”

  Oswald’s mother opened her mouth, closed it, and then said, “I don’t know what you mean, Mother Edna.”

  “I’m sure you do, and please don’t call me that ridiculous name.” Turning to her son, she said, “You’re looking very well, Conrad. How did Prague suit you?”

  “I could have done with less classical music,” he said with a wink at his son. “I never want to set foot in Smetana Hall again.”

  Evelyn pursed her lips. “You were the one who wanted tickets for the whole series.”

  “No,” said Mr. Grant. “I only wondered if it was more cost-efficient than buying individual tickets.”

  “I’m sure Conrad remembers correctly,” Edna said innocently. “He has always been very precise.”

  Mr. Grant and Oswald both turned away, but I caught them grinning.

  Edna tapped my shoulder with an elegant shell-pink nail and said, “Young Lady, I expect you to help me with dinner.”

  Before I could respond that I’d already been laboring all day for her, Edna went to talk to the egg-noggin, the elderly man who was still surrounded by other guests.

  Oswald’s father began quizzing Oswald about property taxes.

  How had the meeting with Evelyn Grant gone awry so quickly? I smiled to show my good will and my earnest intentions and asked about her year in Prague. She told me about the city’s cultural life, but the subtext of her dialogue was, “You’re not fit to clean my brilliant boy’s handmade Swiss shoes!” Mine was, “I really, really like you and you’ll have to pry Oswald away from my cold, dead fingers!”

  Oswald stood beside us, pleased that we were talking.

  Evelyn smiled warmly at her son and said to me, “What is it that you do exactly? Besides this writing and living with my son.”

  “I also do garden design and maintenance,” I said. “I made the courtyard garden here for Edna, and I’ve designed a few gardens in town. I’d be happy to show them to you.”

  “Oh,” she sniffed, “Oswald’s other girlfriends were successful career women, like Winnie.” She looked over at my friend and said, “Such a brilliant and beautiful young woman.”

  “Yes, she is,” I agreed. “What I like best about her is that she is so kind. Kindness is so underrated, I think.”

  Evelyn paused to consider attacking me on the kindness front. Then Oswald’s cousin appeared in the doorway, so I said, “I could sing Winnie’s praises all night, but I see Gabriel. Please excuse me.”

  “Of course. I must pay my respects to our honored guest, anyway.” She turned and walked over to Mr. Egghead, and I went to Gabriel.

  He had grown his red hair long and it curled romantically at the collar of the ivory shirt that hung loosely over his snug jeans. “Gabriel, you look practically pre-Raphaelite,” I said.

  Gabriel was a small man, but he gave huge hugs. “Young Lady, if I swung your way, I’d swing your way,” he said.

  I liked that he’d used one of my phrases, and I laughed.

  He dropped his voice and said, “How are you?”

  “Surviving,” I answered quietly. “Oswald’s mother didn’t tell me flat out that she wished I’d crawl back under the rock from whence I came, but that is the general drift.” I looked into the living room and asked, “Are your parents here?”

  “They couldn’t make it,” he said.

  “That’s too bad. How’s the security biz going?”

  Gabriel was responsible for handling threats to the family, which was a full-time job. He had helped bring down CACA and negotiated a deal where SLIME could not approach me or the family. “No one’s been gathering the villagers and shouting, ‘To the castle!’ but there are some developments I’m watching.”

  “Another crazy group coming after the family?”

  “Not exactly,” he said. He was studying the fellow with the white-blond hair, which surprised me because he didn’t seem Gabriel’s type.

  I would have tried to find out more, but Sam’s parents descended upon us. They believed I was responsible for Sam and Winnie’s union, so they were very friendly. I began to feel so welcome that I told them all about my dog and my chicken. I don’t know why Oswald said they were boring.

  Now and again, I caught the fellow with the white-blond hair glancing at me. No one had bothered to introduce us, so I made my way to him. I had to wait until the circle around the older man opened up. “Hello, I’m—”

  “Milagro De Los Santoss, the Miracle of the Saintss,” the white-blond man said with a smile. He spoke with a slightly sibilant s in so leisurely a tone that I knew it was an affectation.

  “Yess,” I said.

  “Your reputation precedess you,” he said. “The only person known to have ssurvived infection.”

  Although his eyes were pale, his stare was intense; but his study of me was not sexual. I felt both complimented by the attention and uneasy. “Is that a bad thing?”

  “On the contrary! I am impressed and intrigued.”

  I smiled and stared back at him. “Now that we’re old friends, who are you?”

  “Ssilas Madison,” he said. “A distant relation, but the birth of a baby is such a rare and sspecial occasion…” He dropped his voice and said confidentially, “I welcomed the opportunity to meet you.”

  “Now you’re making me feel like an exhibit at the zoo.”

  Suddenly Gabriel was by my side, saying, “Young Lady, Grandmama kindly requests our assistance with dinner.”

  As Gabriel and I went through the dining room, I stopped in my tracks and asked, “Who is Silas and who’s the old guy?”

  Gabriel fiddled with my arrangement of white roses on the table.

  “The old guy is Willem Dunlop, who lives in Europe most of the time. You probably guessed by Silas’s last name that he’s an American. He’s Willem’s assistant.”

  “An aide de corpse,” I said, and laughed.

  Instead of laughing with me, Gabriel said, “Don’t let anyone hear you say that. They’re eccentric, but important to the family.”

  I shr
ugged. “So where is Willem on the family food chain?”

  “What food chain? There’s no food chain.”

  “Gabe, there’s always a food chain. You’d know if you were ever stuck being the catfish, eating garbage off the river bottom.”

  Edna glowered at us from the kitchen doorway, so Gabriel took my arm in his and led me to the kitchen. “Willem is like Cher, respected as a dignitary, but without much chance of rocking the top twenty at this point.”

  “Cher would have worn a fabulous wig,” I said as we walked into the fragrant kitchen.

  I’d arrived at the ranch a year ago knowing only how to make quesadillas and one meal that I reserved for fourth dates. Edna had taught me everything from appetizers to desserts, and I was still learning. I loved it when Gabriel came over and we all cooked together, crossing paths, calling out for assistance and advice, and sharing tastes.

  When we sat down to dinner, I was shocked to see Silas help seat Willem at the head of the table, in Edna’s spot. I looked at Oswald and we both looked at Edna. Her eyes narrowed so very slightly that I would have missed it if I hadn’t been watching closely. She was about to sit at Willem’s right when Silas took that chair.

  Edna froze for a second before moving down the table. She picked up a platter and held it toward Willem. “Tomatoes dressed with balsamic vinegar, basil, and garlic,” she said dryly.

  The egghead winced. He opened his lipless mouth and rasped, “We do not partake of the foods of the lower lands.”

  “The lower lands?” I asked.

  “Italy, Greece, Africa, Central and South America, the southern lands with their sun idolatry,” he explained.

  “Tahiti?” I asked. “Cabo? San Diego?”

  “Most definitely,” said Willem with a bob of his noggin.

  “But why do you have this dislike for foods of the ‘lower lands’?” I asked. “How can someone not like a potato?”

  “Whether it is the food or the sun, the peoples of these lands lack intellectual acuity,” Willem said tersely, breaking into my wistful memory of eating my abuelita’s tender potatoes with a warm corn tortilla. “Their literature, science, and art are inferior.”

  The rest of the table was silent, and I felt Oswald’s hand under the table, squeezing my thigh in a babe-please-don’t-start-this gesture.

  “I am boggled by your grand and sweeping dismissal of all the accomplishments of these so-called lower lands,” I said. “How did you arrive at this opinion?”

  “Opinion!” Willem spat out. “This is no mere opinion. It is fact. An outsider, a low-lander such as you cannot comprehend.”

  “Try me.” I smiled coolly. I didn’t break eye contact with him, letting him know that if he wanted a fight, I was ready.

  Silas looked positively distressed. “Willem,” he said in a placating tone, “Milagro iss new to our thinking.”

  “Yes, but I’m a fast study, and I’ve got mad comprehension skills,” I said. “Toss a few of your analytical processes for establishing the inferiority of the lower lands in my general direction.”

  “You are a freak of nature. You will never understand our ways and our philosophies,” Willem said.

  I briefly considered the advisability of slapping an old codger at the dinner table. Then I kicked Oswald’s foot. This was his house, and I was his girlfriend.

  Oswald opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Silas said, “Philosophy iss sso somber a subject on ssuch a joyouss occassion. Let uss sspeak instead of this new happy family.” He raised his glass toward Winnie and Sam. “My most ssincere wishes for your happiness.”

  I admired the grace with which Silas deflected the conversation to a safer topic. I was happy to toast my friends.

  Then Sam’s father stood and said, “I would like to toast our honored guest, Willem, and thank him for joining in this blessing of our beautiful granddaughter.” He raised his glass and said, “To Willem.”

  I didn’t feel like toasting the eggman, so I tilted my glass and pretended to sip.

  The relatives told stories about their children and their own childhoods. They were overly animated as they spoke, as if they were hoping that anecdotes about kindergarten would make us all forget Willem’s earlier comments.

  Their stories were not much different from the stories of other people of their generation, but I listened carefully. I was always interested to learn how people lived, people in normal families. Even so, I found my eyelids growing heavy. It had been a long day and I was exhausted.

  When dinner was over, I excused myself and said good night to those nearby, one of whom was Willem.

  He leaned toward me. “Why aren’t you dead?” he asked as if genuinely confused.

  “Just stubborn, I guess,” I said.

  “I would have said ‘contrary,”’ Edna said with a smirk.

  The idea of enduring Willem’s idiocy for even five more minutes was more than I could stand. I said, “Do excuse me. Very nice meeting you all, but I’m a little tired. Not dead tired. Just tired.” I gave Edna a kiss on the cheek. As I drew away, I saw Evelyn glaring at me from across the room.

  I was heading out of the kitchen when I heard footsteps behind me. Oswald swung an arm over my shoulder. “Willem is very highly respected,” he said as we walked outside.

  “So I gathered, but he is a horse’s ass,” I said. We moseyed across the field. “How come you didn’t speak up for me?”

  “I was kind of hoping it would blow over. Everything had been going so well until then.”

  “He called me a freak of nature,” I huffed.

  Oswald laughed. “You are a freak of nature, but in the very best way. It bugs the hell out of him that you are resistant to our condition.”

  “Mmm.” I was a little less annoyed that Oswald hadn’t fought for my honor. “Don’t you want to go back and talk with your family?”

  “I’ll talk to them later. It was great to see how well you were getting along with my mom.”

  His comment threw me off. Maybe I had been misinterpreting perfectly polite remarks. “Are you sure she likes me?”

  “Absolutely.” He pulled me close and said, “Let’s open a bottle of champagne and have a lingerie fashion show.”

  “Oswald,” I said, and stopped there in the darkness.

  “Yes, Milagro?”

  “Thanks for coming with me.”

  “To the ends of the earth, babe.”

  Three

  Once Bitten, Twice Dry

  I f I dressed a little nicer the next morning it was because I had new clothes, not because I was trying to impress the vampires. I caught myself thinking that word, “vampires,” and I pushed it to a dank recess of my brain while I slipped on pink capris, a white eyelet blouse, and dangly earrings. I couldn’t figure out what to do with my hair, so I just let it fall over my shoulders and hoped that the day would not be windy.

  Oswald had taken the day off so we could spend it with his parents. Although I kidded Oswald about his spoiled clientele, he also did a lot of pro bono work for those with more critical problems. He’d fixed cleft palates for the poor, repaired features for those in accidents, and made a special effort to help returning soldiers.

  This morning I found him at the turnout checking on the horses. I saw him before he saw me. He was wearing a faded black Dawn of the Dead T-shirt that had shrunk in a charming way. As he reached to scratch his bay horse, the shirt rode up and exposed a delicious slice of his smooth back.

  “I hope you put sunscreen on your back,” I called.

  He looked at me and gave his lopsided grin. “I put sunscreen everywhere.”

  “Do you think your parents are going to appreciate your T-shirt?”

  “My parents think I can do no wrong.”

  “That must be nice.”

  “It is. But sometimes I want to step off the pedestal.”

  “I’d be happy to give you a hand down,” I said. “Or a hand anywhere you might need a hand.” I swiped some hay off his jeans-clad b
ottom. “Even two hands. I’m feeling very helpful toward you at the moment.”

  One side of his mouth rose higher than the other. I loved his asymmetrical smile. “Don’t tempt me. Stanley’s been limping and I have to take a look at him before we go out.” Oswald had studied veterinary care in order to look after the animals.

  I scratched the bay between his eyes. “Okay, I guess that is more important. I’m going to have breakfast at the Big House.”

  “I was just there. I told my parents to meet us at ten thirty, and I made lunch reservations for one.”

  “Sounds good. Later, baby.”

  In the kitchen, the relatives, with the exception of Willem and Silas, were drinking coffee and noshing on pastries and fresh fruit. They chatted about the beauty of the countryside, and Sam’s father waved a camera and said he’d already taken over one hundred photos of the baby.

  Oswald’s mother poured a glass of dark red juice and handed it to me. The family preferred juice from blood oranges and ate lots of red food because that color staved off their cravings for blood.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Grant,” I said. “Oswald said he’ll be ready to go at ten thirty. He made reservations at a winery restaurant.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of him. Of course, Oswald is a very thoughtful person,” she said. “He hates to disappoint others.”

  I couldn’t really argue here, since he had had a problem breaking up with Winnie when he’d had a bad case of Milagro fever. “Oswald tells me you’ve only been here once before.”

  “Yes, when he was living here in the house, not off in the guest cottage.”

  “I know that seems strange, but it’s really very cozy there.”

  She frowned. I was trying to think of something pleasant to say when Gabriel came over and slipped an arm around my waist.

  “Auntie, I’m taking my honey out for a walk.”

  “See you later, Mrs. Grant.” It seemed odd to call her Mrs. Grant when I called her mother-in-law Edna.

  Gabriel wore a wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses, and a long-sleeved shirt because he was especially fair and sensitive to the sun.

  “Milagro, may I ask a favor?”